I grew up with the notion my father was dead. It wasn't until I was twelve, when I finally met him, it sunk in he was just legally dead after being off the radar for seven years.
After a couple of days with him in Scotland I accepted a Facebook friend request from him, although I never did respond to any of his messages. My grandfather was a national newspaper humor columnist with generational wealth, yet my father was sleeping in hostels around Mexico according to the photos on Facebook. It never quite added up.
Then he disappeared once again and a discussion board on the internet later surfaced titled "Where is Dan Valentine?". So, seven years later he was legally dead one more time.
Then out of the blue, just a few months ago his sister, a former ballerina (like my mum) and fellow at the Dutch National Ballet and now socialite based between Amsterdam and her chateaux in France, informed me on Facebook Messenger that he died a few hours earlier, in Mexico. And this time he was really dead after suffering severe dementia.
Oddly there were no rumblings of it on Facebook or in media. Not even a post of sorrow from his sister or an obituary. Just gone. One more final time, maybe.
I didn't know a lot about my father yet I see similarities.
Whether throughout my poor childhood upbringing or my comfortable but fearless lifestyle of now, wanderlust and the safety net of a parachute has always made me think my most adventurous life chapter is just a page away.
Rest in peace Dan Valentine.